


The Queen's Hand

by SunflowerZombieMouse



Category: Original Work
Genre: Oh wait, Salty Boy™, actually i don't know that this chapter needs all that many tags?, and uh bad rumors, but that's kind of. it?, chapter one tags;, i can't think of anything that might bother people, let me know if there's anything you think I should add though, no beta we die like men ― unprepared and useless, oh how could i forget, there's bullying by isolation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerZombieMouse/pseuds/SunflowerZombieMouse
Summary: Rewriting the cards story! yay! With a worse summary, but they still have to stop the spade queen from taking over everything and messing it up.





	The Queen's Hand

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have decided to leave the first draft up until I'm all caught up on chapters (which . . . that's gonna be a while). And, obviously, to make a new work for the rewritten chapters. shrug. Personally, I really like this rewritten chapter. I think I gave the main characters more solid personalities this time around. Also, it's longer! yay!

It’s very comfortable on the grass. If it weren’t the middle of the day, Lyndon might be falling asleep. As it is, he’s just lying down with his hood over his eyes and enjoying the wind rushing over him. Of course, he knows it won’t last for very long, but eh ― he might as well enjoy it while he can. It’s the middle of lunch, who’s going to get on his case right now?  
    As if on cue, an unfortunately familiar voice says “Hey,” right over him. Dammit, he knows about jinxes and he still managed to jinx himself. Curses.  
    Lyndon pretends not to have heard and evens out his breathing. _I can’t see you,_ he thinks, sing-song. _Therefore you can’t see me. Fool-proof logic. Go away._  
    Pax ― just about the only other Spade student here ― does not go away. “I know you’re awake,” he says, nudging at the bottom of Lyndon’s shoe with his own. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t fall asleep during the day unless you’re really really tired, and I’m pretty sure you were chipper as hell this morning. Dude, I need to talk to you.”  
    Lyndon sighs, a long, put-upon noise that’s so obnoxious it sounds more like a groan. He pulls the hood down off his forehead and squints up at Pax, blinking against the sun. The other teenager is kneeling next to him now, the wind ruffling through his hair. Lyndon is very jealous of that hair; for one, it’s way more manageable than his own. He can’t walk across the room ― any room ― without it becoming a rat’s nest and he hates it. For another, Pax’s hair is a nice, normal brown. Why can’t his own hair be brown? Or red, or black, or even blond? It’s bad enough his eyes are Marked, that his hair is paper-white just isn’t fair. Come on, genetics. Come on. “What.”  
    Pax rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that. You were supposed to meet me in the kitchen earlier to help with baking, remember?”  
    Ah. Right. That. Lyndon vaguely remembers promising to mix and bake enough donut cake, brownies, and sugar cookies for some party-like event, but to be honest he’d been barely aware and/or functioning at the time. So he didn’t remember the exact time he was supposed to be there; oh well. Sue him. “Sorry,” he says, sitting up and wincing at the sudden light-headedness. He always forgets not to sit up too fast. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t paying too much attention to when you said I was supposed to show up.”  
    Pax sighs. “Lyndon . . .”  
    “Look, I’ll go over right now,” Lyndon says, standing and brushing off the blades of grass that stick to his backside. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve got the rest of it under control. ‘Sides, the party thing’s not happening today, is it?” Pax nods his head. “Then it’s fine. I’ll just take over the kitchen for a bit and then we can go back to classes and pretending I don’t exist. Yeah?”  
    “That’s going a bit far, but alright.” Pax hands him a piece of paper, folded over into a neat little square. It has scribbles on it. “That’s everyone who’s got a food allergy, so you can watch out for it. Are you sure you don’t want any help?”  
    Lyndon opens his mouth to give into the knee-jerk reaction and say no, then thinks over it more seriously. “You know what? Sure. Someone can do frostings. I don’t know how to do that. I mean, I do, but I don’t want to make that on top of everything else.” He thinks for a second, head tilted, then nods firmly and turns on his heel to head for the school kitchen.  
    Pax nods in his peripheral vision. “‘Kay. Hey, Lyndon?”  
    Lyndon pauses and turns around again. “Hmm?”  
    “You know not everyone hates you, right?” Pax looks very earnest. “The whole curse thing is just a stupid rumor ― no one really believes that.” The wind ruffles his hair again.  
    Lyndon’s lips press together. “Sure,” he says eventually. Then he turns and leaves before Pax can say anything else to make his chest clench painfully.

* * *

It’s a nice sentiment behind what Pax was saying, and Lyndon doesn’t really fault him for trying to be nice ― Pax is one of the nicest people Lyndon knows, here at least, so he’d be kind of surprised if he didn’t try to cheer up anyone he thinks needs it ― but at the same time, he really wishes the guy would just mind his own damn business. Is Lyndon lonely at this stupid school that’s really really far away from home? Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he really wants to get to know anyone here, either. They all know his last name, they know who his parents are; that sort of thing tends to make people less likely to think of him as a person and more likely as a means to higher status. Except for the younger students, but they mostly hang out in their own part of the buildings, and none of them really seem to be interested in him all that much. Which is refreshing, but does nothing for his loneliness. Anyway. He doesn’t really want to be friends with Pax, either, though he’s still figuring out the why on that one. He’s just . . . . He frowns and stabs harder at the butter in the bowl. The few other kids in the room slowly edge away from him.  
     _Uncomfortable,_ he finally decides on with a good butter stab. Pax makes him uncomfortable. _But_ why _does he make you uncomfortable?_ He sighs. His grandfather’s voice is just as insistent in his head as it is when the real thing is speaking. He blinks at the now pulverized butter-sugar-oil-brown-sugar mix. It holds no answers to that particular _why_. How dare it not conveniently bend to his whims and provide one.  
    “Uh―” he looks up at the nervous, short second year girl fidgeting on the other side of the kitchen island. There’s a small outline of a club just above her cheekbone in yellow. “Mr. Cairo, are you ok?” _Sigh,_ he thinks. _Wrong one. Stop using that name._ He doesn’t say that out loud, just shrugs and taps the stirry against the side of the bowl. He taps his fingers against the side too, for good measure.  
    “Me? I’m fine.” He looks down again and tries not to let any of his inner grump cloud into his expression. He’s not sure how successful he is. “Just . . . working through some personal stuff. In my head. Why, what’s up?”  
    “Uh ― well, we finished the ― finished the frostings. Chocolate, vanilla, orange, mint, and lemon, like you asked.” She peers into the bowl and rests her hands on the cool marble. Her dark glasses slip down on her nose, the rhinestones on the corners of the frames glinting in the harsh overhead light. “Is it ― is that . . . going to be the donut cake thing?”  
    “Yup,” he says, popping the p. Before he can think better of it, he offers the stirry ― _other people say spoon, doofus,_ spoon ― handle first. “Just beating the butter. ’S pretty fun. You wanna try?”  
    She blinks owlishly at him and her nose scrunches up in thought. “Um―”  
    “Jenna,” another girl says before she can finish speaking, coming up to them. She glances at Lyndon, then hurriedly looks away. “Listen, we’re gonna be late. Sorry.” She grabs the glasses girl’s arm ― Jenna, Lyndon guesses ― and drags her away hurriedly.  
    Lyndon frowns down at the bowl. “Well, shit,” he says to himself. (He tells himself it’s because of the impending class and not the girl’s obvious apprehension.) The brownies are cooling, he doesn’t need to do anything else with them, but the cookies are still in the oven and he hasn’t even gotten the rest of the donut batter mixed, and yet ― there’s the bell. And he didn’t think to get a note explaining why he’d be late. Shit. Well ― if he gets in trouble, oh well. Making sure the kitchen doesn’t burn down is more important than going through subject matter he already knows. Besides, he can ask for makeup work. He has his cursed reputation and his mother’s status, he can get away with it.

* * *

It’s early evening when he finally leaves the kitchen, smelling like chocolate and flour and sugar. He knew he only had to do the three things, but who was going to complain if he decided to make extras of them? No one in their right mind would say no to more baked goods. Unless they have an allergy to one or more of the ingredients, but that’s beside the point. Anyway. He forgot how much he likes baking. He should do it more often, if it leaves him feeling like this.  
    He turns the corner and bumps into a bunch of first year students. “Ah ― sorry,” he says, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.  
    Two of them let out twin squeaks, and Lyndon feels his good mood fall off his shoulders. “No, no, we’re sorry!” One of them says, pushing the rest past him and giving him frightened glances. “Won’t happen again, sir! We promise!”  
    As they walk away, Lyndon hears one of them asking “Dude, what was that about?”  
    “Didn’t you know? That was the spade queen’s son ― he’s cursed. I heard from that heart girl that if you meet his eyes or say his name it spreads to you.”  
    “No way. That’s gotta be fake.”  
    “No, I saw! He really is cursed! One of the council members got sent to the hospital wing after she had to―”  
    Lyndon doesn’t hang around to hear the rest. He takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders and his posture, and walks off. _Game face, game face,_ he thinks. Who cares? Not him, that’s for sure. It’s all bullshit, anyway. If they wanna believe some stupid rumor about a stranger, that’s fine. He doesn’t even know who they’re talking about. Not his job to make sure they know what they’re talking about, anyway, regardless of who it is.  
    Maybe Alvar will agree to give them restless sleep if he bribes the imp with pastries.

* * *

He flops face first onto his bed, not bothering to close the door. Alvar will get it, they both hate having the door open at night. He hurts. The cool, smooth fabric of his bed is comforting against suddenly too-hot skin. He should get out of his uniform so he can cool down further, but that requires more effort than he can muster up at the moment.  
     _ **―Well, someone looks down.**_  
    He grunts. The imp lands on his shoulder blades, the door closing with a gentle click. Alvar’s claws dig into his shoulders as it settles down. A small hand strokes his hair and he sighs in relief. “Today was sucky,” he mumbles, his face half-smushed in the pillow.  
     _ **―Was it?**_  
    “Yes.”  
     _ **―Well, that’s nothing a good sleep and some proper food won’t fix. Besides, don’t you have a party to go to tomorrow? Parties are always good when you’ve baked for them.**_  
    Lyndon shoves his face further into the fabric. The hand on his hair stills. “I don’t think I was invited,” he says, blinking back tears and trying not to let his voice break. His throat hurts now, along with everything else. He wants to go home.  
    The imp stands and pads off his shoulders to come sit by his head. Lyndon blinks one more time and turns his head to look at Alvar. The imp looks like a furry humanoid shadow. Its feet look like cat paws (complete with retractable claws) and it has a tail with a big tuft of fur at the end of it. There’s a patch of green fur on its chest in the shape of a spade ― Lyndon isn’t sure why or how that’s there, but he thinks it’s kind of cool. Alvar has wings on its back, just above where shoulder blades would be on a human. The tips of the wings are red, and there are tiny little claws at the top of the curves. It has claws at the ends of its hands and little grooved horns on its head that curl inward a little. The horns are such a dark shade of green that Lyndon keeps thinking they’re black instead. Alvar’s ears are fuzzy and pointed like a cat, if cats had ears the size of their heads. Its eyes are blue and its mouth never moves, instead stuck in an endless mischievous smile like Alvar is planning to steal all of the socks in your drawer. Lyndon has learned not to rely on its expressions to figure out how it feels.  
    Right now, with its wings folded along its back and its shoulders square, Lyndon is pretty sure it feels disapproving. More likely of the other students than of him, but the pang of guilt still runs through his chest. Alvar is one of his best friends; he tries to stay away from things that disappoint it.  
     _ **―Well, now. That’s just plain rude.**_ It places a paw on Lyndon’s shoulder. Its tail flicks lazily from side to side behind it. _**Everyone knows you must invite the baker to your event. What is the point, otherwise?**_  
    “I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing anywhere other than with imps,” Lyndon says, his eyelids drooping. Alvar’s wings flare and settle back down as it processes that. The red tips get a bit darker. Lyndon pats the paw on his shoulder reassuringly. “’S fine. I’m just gonna go to bed now, anyway.”  
     _ **―Alright, then. Sleep well.**_

* * *

Pax flops onto his desk chair, tucking his feet under it as it rolls a bit with his weight, and sighs. His fingers tap a rolling beat against the smooth wood of his desk. It’s relatively new; he’s only had it for a month or so, but that’s been long enough to spill ink, tea, and millions of unfortunate crumbs all over it, not to mention getting a little bashed up. There’s a big knot in the wood that he likes to rub his fingers over or scratch at when he’s thinking.  
    “Hey, Ezzie?”  
    The imp looks up from its mirror on his nightstand. _**―What’s up, kiddo?**_ The green spade on its chest glimmers, and the rest of its black fur shine in the light streaming in from the window.  
    “Do you know where my tape recorder went?”  
    It looks back down again to peer critically at a paw. **―Still in that drawer where you always put it when you’re done, kiddo.**  
    “Oh.” He rummages around in it. He finds the recorder hidden, pushed to the back by scissors and a stack of stick-it paper. He pauses to collect his thoughts before clicking the record button. “So. It’s the fourth Kysday in Nightmare season.” He pauses again. “Today was weird. Homeroom was canceled because the room was filled with rotten eggs. We all hung around outside for a study hall. The rest of the classes were pretty normal, but Lyndon ― Lyndon Cairo, he’s the son of the queen of spades ― disappeared after lunch. He said he was going to go bake, but . . . I dunno. He seemed more . . . I dunno what the word I’m looking for is. Depressed, maybe? I guess for lack of a better word, he looked more depressed than normal. And I mean, he _did_ bake, that club girl told me he was beating up some butter. I think she meant he was creaming it.” He leans back in the chair, watches the blades of the overhead fan lazily circle. “I just ― I guess ― mm.” He closes his eyes, a frown pulling at his face. “I don’t really have any right to say this, because we barely know each other and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want us to be any closer, but I’m really worried about him. I’ve said this before, but we’re the only two kids from the Spade kingdom, and in a school full of the elite, that’s . . . not great. I mean, I guess he can hide from that a little bit ‘cause of his mom, but it still sucks. At least from what I got before I joined the student council.” He opens his eyes. Ezmund is now perched on his desk and is purring comfortingly. He reaches out and scratches at the space just above and behind its horns. Its ears flick back in pleasure. “Anyway.” He sighs and Ezzie pats his hand. “I guess I just think he needs a friend.” Pax clicks the stop button and sets the tape recorder down.  
     _ **―Why can’t you be his friend, kiddo?**_  
    Pax sighs again. “Because I’m fairly certain he doesn’t want to be friends with me. And I’m not going to force him into anything he doesn’t want.”  
    Ezzie makes a cooing noise in its throat and clasps at his hand. _**―You really are a good kid, Pax, you know that?**_  
    Pax smiles. “So you’ve told me. But thanks.” Ezmund squeezes his hand. They sit in silence for a few minutes, just breathing and holding hands. Then Pax blinks and stretches, yawning. He shakes his head at the pop in his jaw. “I’m gonna go to bed now,” he decides. “It’s getting pretty late, anyway.”  
     _ **―Is it?**_ Ezmund flaps its wings and lands on his head to peer at the clock nestled on a shelf on the wall. _**―So it is. Huh. Well, don’t forget your drops and teeth.**_  
    “I _know,”_ Pax grumbles. “I was hoping I could sneak without it tonight.” The imp laughs at his complaining. He hates the eye drops; not necessarily what they do, which is keep his eyes from drying up unnaturally, but he hates the process of getting them _into_ his eyes. That absolutely sucks. Brushing his teeth isn’t all that bad, though.  
    He’s just about to flick off the light to the joining bathroom when a pain runs through his chest and he hisses, a hand coming up to press at it. Over by the bed, Ezmund looks up from its task of tidying the already neat sheets even further. “I’m fine―” Pax starts, but gets cut off by another spasm ― this one is worse, lasts longer and pushes to the rest of his torso. He hisses again. Ezmund drops the sheets against his protests and flies over to kneel on the floor in front of him. By the time it reaches the carpet, Pax has sunk to his knees and can’t breathe well through the pain. He whimpers. “What―”  
   **―Pax Anselm, son of Zechariah and Esther, I name you King of Spades. Rise under the mantle of your crown.**  
    Pax feels very certain that the imp has just done something incredibly important, so he promptly passes out.

* * *

Lyndon keens as he clutches at his head. He can’t see, the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes sting like a bitch, and he can barely breathe. He fell onto the floor sometime ago; he’d gotten up to turn on his music and close the window. He’s pretty sure Alvar is kneeling on the floor somewhere in front of him, but he can’t look to be certain.  
    He takes in a ragged breath and sobs, curling up tighter. The pain feels like hundreds of hot knives being stabbed and then melted into him, and that’s just his head.  
     _ **―Lyndon Russell.**_ Lyndon can’t help but pay attention ― quite literally, in this case, because the imp’s voice is now resonating through his head. _**―Grandson of Lasva and Murien, I name you Queen of Spades. Rise under the mantle of your crown.**_  
    “That’s great,” Lyndon croaks and immediately regrets it because now his throat feels like that’s being stabbed, too. Thankfully, his brain decides to _nope_ out of it and spares him from consciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at miloe.tumblr.com, even though that website is being run by nincompoops and people are leaving it in droves.


End file.
